Lost property II: Too good to miss
by Purupuss
Summary: What is more rewarding? Risking your neck and getting away with it? Or Grandma's freshly baked apple pie? A companion story to Quiller's Lost Property.


Lost property II: Too good to miss 

_The basic premise for this tale is based on events that actually happened to Quiller. When she told me what had happened we both agreed that, given a Thunderbirds theme, they could translate into an entertaining story._

_Shortly afterwards Quiller felt a bit under the weather, and to try to cheer her up I wrote her a story, part of which incorporated the events that she'd detailed. At the same time, she took advantage of her enforced leisure to write a story of her own. The result was two totally different tales with the same basic theme._

_Quiller generously suggested that I should expand and improve on my version and publish it at the same time that she published hers, giving our readers the chance to compare two different styles of storytelling. So here you have it, the Purupuss version of Quiller's "Lost Property"._

_The Thunderbirds characters do not belong to me; they currently belong to Granada.  
The basic idea of the story is not mine; it is Quiller's.  
All I can claim are the Misses Isdale and Marshall._

_What a pity._

_Thanks to Quiller and D.C. their proofreading skills._

_Purupuss_

What is more rewarding? Risking your neck and getting away with it…? Or Grandma's freshly baked apple pie?

_Set in the days when International Rescue was still a gleam in Jeff Tracy's eye. _

Young Gordon Tracy entered the family home, threw his wet swimming gear into the laundry, and then walked into the main body of the house. "Is anyone home?" he yelled.

There was no reply.

Gordon shrugged mentally, went into the kitchen and pulled open the door to the giant fridge that served the Tracy family. These school holidays marked the first time in ages that everyone was going to be under the same roof, including Scott and John, who'd arrived back late from university yesterday afternoon. In anticipation of having to feed five hungry boys, Grandma Tracy had overstocked the larder and the fridge.

Gordon stood in front of the appliance, bathed in the cold light, mesmerised by the vast selection of food. He was still standing there when his grandmother came in. "Gordon Tracy! Make your selection and shut the door! Look at the electricity you're wasting."

Gordon shrugged. "Dad can afford it. He's loaded!"

"That's not the point. We went through years when he couldn't afford to waste a penny. Years of scrimping and saving money. Years of fighting to ensure that you boys had clothes on your back and food in your stomachs."

"Yes, Grandma," Gordon said, only half listening to what she was saying.

"Just because we no longer need to, doesn't mean we shouldn't continue to conserve energy... Think of the environment."

"Okay, Grandma." Gordon shrugged again, closed the fridge door and selected an apple from the fruit bowl. "What's for dinner?" he asked as he took a bite.

"Stewed bugs and onions," his grandmother replied. "You'll find out when it's time. And…" she pointed at her grandson, "make sure you're wearing decent clothes and are on your best behaviour. Miss Marshall and Miss Isdale are coming."

"Oh, no…" Gordon groaned. "Those two are a real bundle of laughs…"

"And they are two of my dearest friends. They were a big support to me when your grandfather died... And you can tell your brothers that they've got to mind their manners too. Where are they all?"

"Dunno. Scott said something about catching up with some old friends. John was going to the observatory. Alan's gone karting with the Thomas'. Virgil's probably got his nose buried in an engine somewhere…"

"Well, I hope he washes his hands properly before dinner. He wipes grease and oil all over the clean linen."

"Why don't we have paper serviettes?" Gordon asked hopefully.

"So you can make darts out of them, I suppose," Grandma snorted. "Don't you have some assignments to do? Your father told you to get them done now and then you'll be free for the rest of the holidays."

"I've got that stupid English literature one."

"Well, go do that."

"Why? Why do I need to study English literature? I'm American."

"So that you will get a greater appreciation of the English language."

"Why?" Gordon repeated. "I speak good, don't I?"

"No you don't. Now go do your homework."

"Yes, Ma'am." Gordon slouched out the door. He was halfway down the hallway when the phone rang. He answered it, "The Really Awful Company Yawning residence."

There was a moment's silence before the person at the other end uttered a bewildered "Hello? Is that the Tracy residence?"

Gordon replied in the affirmative and listened as the caller asked for one of his brothers. "No, I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. Can I take a message…?" He grabbed a piece of notepaper and pen. "You've got it…? It came from where…?" he grinned as he scribbled the message. "Sure, I'll tell him. Thanks. He'll be glad to get it back." He hung up the phone and re-read his notes. "Well, well, well. Who would have thought?" He grin broadened and a devious gleam appeared in his eyes. He could have fun with this bit of information. He thrust the paper into his pocket and headed up to his room to tackle the dreaded English assignment.

"Gordon!" Grandma Tracy yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "Will you set the table, please?"

Gordon came bounding down the stairs, glad to get away from all the 'thees' and 'thous' and 'wherefores' that he was currently battling. "Sure, Grandma."

His grandmother looked at him shrewdly. He wasn't usually that keen to do his chores. Knowing this particular grandson, blind obedience usually meant he had caused some trouble, or was about to. "What are you planning?"

"Me?" Gordon feigned ignorance. "Planning? What do you mean, Grandma?"

"I mean you're too keen to set the table. What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything," Gordon said honestly. "I wanted to have a break from my assignment. I'm sick of dealing with long dead Englishmen."

"And that's all?"

"That's all, Grandma. Would I lie to you?" Gordon fixed his grandmother with an endearing smile.

"I would hope not," she replied, unconvinced. "And don't forget to set two extra places for Miss Marshall and Miss Isdale."

"I won't," Gordon said, as he mentally rubbed his hands together in anticipation. An audience! Oh, this was going to be good. Now for the preparations…

He examined the large wooden dining table critically. Placement of the various actors in his planned drama would be absolutely crucial. Jeff Tracy traditionally sat at one end of the table, so the intended victim would be placed beside him. Grandma Tracy sat at the other end of the table and would want to be able to talk to her friends, so the two old biddies would have to sit either side of her. Gordon decided that he would have to bite the bullet and sit beside the guest who was going to be seated diagonally opposite his victim. This, at least, would have the twin advantages of giving him a clear view of the poor sucker, while keeping him far enough away from his brother and his father to ensure that retribution would not be instantaneous. His other brothers were placed to ensure that he would have maximum support.

He had no fears of his plans being upset. Each boy had a serviette picked out in his favourite colour. It was a hangover from their early childhood years, and no one had seen the need to change it. The tradition was going to work in Gordon's favour tonight.

Gordon stood back to examine the table. He nodded to himself in approval and smiled. Roll on dinnertime.

He heard voices in the lounge and went into the next room to find Alan, Virgil and John regaling each other with their day's exploits. None of them were listening to any of the others, but none of them cared.

"I won all my races," Alan boasted proudly. "I'm going to ask Dad if I can get a kart of my own. Mr Thomas said I've got a natural talent…"

Virgil was showing his thumb. "I dropped a mallet on it. Boy it hurt! Look, I'm getting a bruise under the nail…"

"I'm going to set up my telescope again," John said. "James, at the observatory, said there's supposed to be a comet visible tonight…"

"Hey, guys," Gordon announced. "We've got company for dinner."

"Who? Tin-Tin?" Alan asked with a wishful expression. "… And Kyrano?" he added belatedly.

"Nope," Gordon shook his head. "Grandma's pals."

There were groans in triplicate from his brothers. "So we're under strict instructions to behave?" John asked. "Am I right?"

"Yep," Gordon said. "And you've got to make sure your hands are clean," he told Virgil.

Virgil looked at his blackened fingernails. "Why? It'll come off eventually."

"She doesn't want your hands to frighten our guests," Gordon told him.

"What guests?" Scott's voice was heard behind them.

Gordon turned. "Miss Marshmallow and Miss Nothill."

"Gordon," Scott scolded. "They are Grandma's best friends…"

"…And helped her when Grandpa died. I know," Gordon parroted. "That doesn't mean that we have to enjoy their company."

"Miss Marshmallow stinks. Bags I don't sit next to her," Alan said.

"That's arthritis medication," Scott said. "You can't blame her for wearing it."

"But it makes my eyes water when she gets too close," Alan whined. "And she's always pinching my cheeks!"

"I hope you didn't put me beside her, Gordon," John said. "That smell would put me off my dinner."

"It's quite a pleasant smell," Scott told him.

"Well, you sit beside her then," John challenged.

Gordon had a vision of his plans going up in smoke. As it was now, the seating arrangement was perfect; one small change and his scheme could be ruined. He thought frantically, trying to avert disaster.

He was saved by the doorbell, which Scott answered. "Hello Miss Marshma… Marshall. Good evening, Miss Isdale."

"Good evening, Miss Isdale," Alan mimicked quietly. Those brothers that heard him laughed.

"Hello, Scott," they heard Miss Isdale's deep voice. "Are you home on vacation?"

Scott led the way into the lounge. "Yes, Ma'am."

"And how are you finding Harvard?" Miss Marshall asked in her higher-pitched voice.

"Yale," Scott corrected. "John's at Harvard… Yale's a challenge, but I'm enjoying it."

"You're a good boy," Miss Marshall simpered. "And there's Alan! You're so cute!" She pinched his cheeks, leaving them bright red. It was all he could do to stop himself from screwing up his face in disgust. "Hello, boys," she said to his brothers.

"Hello, Miss Marshall," they chimed, echoing Scott. "Good evening, Miss Isdale."

Scott glared at them.

"Is your Grandmother in?" Miss Isdale asked.

"She's in the kitchen," Gordon offered. "She's finishing the meal off."

"I hope she's making some of her apple pie," Miss Isdale said, trying to make conversation with the boys. "It's the talk of the district. She's won the pie competition for the last five years running with her secret recipe."

"She's knows how you like it, Ma'am," Gordon told her. "And I saw her cutting up some apples."

Miss Isdale cast her face heavenwards in a rapturous expression.

Grandma bustled in from the kitchen, wiping wet hands on her apron. "Muriel! Agnes! I'm so glad you could come. Come through to the kitchen and we can talk while I finish cooking… Boys, go and wash up!" As the five Tracy boys obediently filed out of the room, she stopped the chestnut headed one. "Virgil, show me your hands."

"I washed them, Grandma."

"I'm sure you did, Darling, but I'd like to check anyway." Embarrassed Virgil held them out, palms up. She nodded in approval. "Turn them over."

"I washed them," Virgil said again, as he did as he was instructed. "I can't help it if the grease gets caught…"

Grandma's tendency to become a bit of a tartar whenever her friends were visiting was well known, and feared, by her son and grandsons. She tutted in exasperation when she saw the state of his nails. "Virgil! I don't know how you dare go near your piano with hands like that! Go and wash them again!" she ordered. "Scott, don't let him come down until every bit of grease is gone."

"Yes, Grandma," Scott grabbed Virgil by the collar and pulled him out of the room. Pleased that he had been given an opportunity to escape, Virgil allowed himself to be led away.

Half an hour later and the five Tracy boys congregated at the bottom of the stairs. All had showered and put on reasonably tidy clothes. Alan had made an extra special effort and was wearing a gaudy purple and green bowtie that was affixed around his neck on a piece of elastic. "What have you got that on for?" John asked, pulling at it. He let it go with a snap.

"Ow!" Alan rubbed his nose where the bow had hit. "Thad hurd."

"Made your eyes water did it?" John smirked. "That's to show you the effect it has on those who have to look at you wearing it."

Alan pulled at the bowtie himself and examined it critically. "Should I take it off?"

"Yes!" his four brothers nodded.

"You could always wear it in your hair," Gordon suggested.

Alan poked his tongue out at him.

Virgil held up his hands for Scott to examine. They were red from repeated scrubbings. "How's that? If I wash them any more I'll rub the skin off!"

Scott grinned and nodded in satisfaction. "She can't fault those, Virg."

"I hope you've left some skin on the tips," John noted. "Those two will be expecting a concert from you later."

"I know," Virgil groaned. He examined the bruise that was throbbing under his thumbnail. "Do you think I could say that my thumb's too sore, and get out of it?"

"Nope," his brothers replied.

"You need to release the pressure on that," John said. "We'll help! Right guys? You hold him down and I'll drill a hole in his nail."

Virgil took a step backwards in defence. "No way! You're not coming anywhere near me with drilling equipment! I'll get a needle later."

"Boys," their father came out of the dining room, "dinner's ready. And please," he caught his two youngest sons by the back of the neck and shook them gently as he said this, "be on your best behaviour. For your grandmother's sake… and mine," he added as an afterthought.

"We will," Scott promised. "Right, Guys?"

He took the resulting mutterings as sounds of affirmation.

Everyone entered the dining room and took up their seats. Gordon looked around him in satisfaction, pleased that no one had slipped in and rearranged things. The stage was set, the actors in their positions. All that was needed was for him to give the opening cue. If all the world was a stage, then here were the players in this particular drama.

Grandma started dishing out the meal. At the mouth watering smells Gordon's resolution wavered. What if he were forced to miss out on enjoying some of this feast? 'No,' he told himself. 'You can't pass up this opportunity, Gordon. You'll never get another like it!' He resolved that he would enjoy the main course and then risk missing out on dessert.

He examined his four siblings. One of them didn't know what he was in for, blissfully caught up in the delights of the meal and the conversation that was going on around him. Of the four, Gordon reflected, any of them could be a prime target for this particular trap. He smiled to himself. He always enjoyed seeing his brothers squirm, and this time the perfect victim had unwittingly fallen into his lap. Yes! He was going to enjoy this.

"Are you enjoying being home, Scott?" Miss Isdale was asking.

"Yes, Ma'am. It's great to be home. I'm seeing a lot of my old friends again."

"Including girlfriends?" Miss Marshall asked.

At this Scott's four brothers started laughing. "I'll say," Alan gasped. "We haven't been able to get near the phone for all of old girlfriends ringing up to say hi!"

Scott cheeks reddened slightly.

"It's not only Scott's girlfriends," Virgil added. "John's had nearly as many calls."

"You're just jealous that no one's been ringing you," John told him.

"They're all on holiday," Virgil said, pretending to be nonchalant about the situation.

"Alan's waiting for Tin-Tin to ring. Right, Alan?" Gordon teased.

"She's staying with her Dad," Alan said defensively. "They've gone away somewhere."

"And what about you, Gordon?" Miss Marshall asked. "Do you have any girlfriends?"

"He spends all his time swimming," Alan told her, eager to get back at his brother. "The girls all think he's a fish and he's only interested in mermaids."

"Your grandmother says you're doing well," Miss Isdale said to Gordon. "She says you should win at least one medal at the Nationals."

Gordon nodded, suddenly interested in the woman at his side. "Yep. My coach says I've got a good chance to take out the under 18s title."

"And then what?" Miss Isdale asked.

"Then I'm going to try out for the Olympics," Gordon said with confidence. "I'm going to get a gold medal and then I'm going to become a WASP."

"I don't like the idea," Grandma complained. "Those boats they use are dangerous. Why, just last week one flipped. You'll probably get yourself killed."

Gordon laughed. "Grandma! Did you say that when Scott started saying he wanted to join the Air Force, or when Dad became an astronaut? That's more dangerous than being in a boat; boats can't fall out of the sky." He turned his attention back to enjoying the last of his main course.

Grandma pursed her lips together, preventing herself from saying any more on the subject.

"I suppose you have lots of girlfriends at Harvard, Scott," Miss Marshall said.

Scott's forced smile showed he was getting tired of this line of questioning. "Yale," he corrected again. "I know a few, but I'm too busy studying to do much socialising."

Gordon fancied that he saw his father swell slightly with pride at his eldest son's pronouncement.

The first course had been consumed and Grandma had been suitably praised for her culinary expertise. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, instructed Virgil and John to clear the table, and retired to the kitchen. As she returned with her fabled apple pie, still warm from the oven, held carefully in her hands, Gordon's mouth watered. Judging from the look of the pastry and the rich aromas of the dish, it appeared as though his grandmother had outdone herself this time. He couldn't risk missing out on this delicacy… could he? He stiffened his backbone. Yes! He would take the chance.

He waited until everyone had their slice of pie and were savouring their first mouthfuls. The room was silent.

Gordon enjoyed a spoonful of pie and then slapped his forehead. "Heck! I nearly forgot. There was a phone call for you, Scott." He quickly took another spoonful of his dessert.

Scott looked up. "A phone call for me? Who was it?"

Gordon shrugged. "Dunno. I've written it down. It's with my Shakespeare notes. Say, John," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "Can you help me? I can't get my head around all this ancient English stuff."

John nodded, "Sure, Gordon. What are you studying?"

"As You Like It."

"I remember that. Do you want to look at it after dinner?"

"Okay," Gordon agreed. "I don't understand a lot of it. All these people acting out of character…"

It was too much for Scott. "Who rang, Gordon? Male or female?"

Gordon was enjoying some more pie. "It was a girl."

"Did she say what she wanted?"

Gordon spooned up another piece of apple pie and pretended to try to remember as he chewed slowly. "Um… She said not to panic. She's got it." He quickly shovelled a few slivers of apple into his mouth. If he kept feeding out information at this pace he should have his dessert finished by the time the proverbial hit the fan.

Scott wasn't about to be swayed from finding out about this mysterious female. "She's got what?"

Gordon made a big show of ensuring that his mouth was empty before replying. "Your wallet."

As he had more of this delicious pie he watched as his big brother's hands went to the trouser pocket where the wallet habitually lived. Then he checked the other back pocket, his jacket pockets and finally the ones in his shirt.

His brothers watched the search in amusement. "I don't believe this," Virgil said. "Do you mean to say that you've actually lost your wallet? You? Scott Tracy?"

"I'm shocked!" John sounded it. "I thought you never lost anything! A place for everything and everything in its place, that's your motto isn't it?"

"So 'Mr Perfect' isn't perfect," Alan sniggered.

"Thanks for the support, Guys," Scott growled, his brow creased as he tried to remember where he'd last seen the offending object. "Did this girl say where she'd found it?"

"On the floor," Gordon supplied helpfully.

Three of his brothers cracked up with laughter. There was a strangled sound from Miss Isdale.

"Gordon," Scott sighed. "Be serious. Who was she? Where did she find it?"

Gordon looked down. He'd timed this well. If he crammed them in there were only two mouthfuls of pie left on his plate. It was time for the coup de grace. "I can't remember her name," he admitted. "But she said that it must have fallen out of your pocket when you took your trousers off." He looked down at his plate and, as he scooped up the penultimate piece of pie, mentally counted to ten to give his words time to sink in.

The room was deathly silent when he looked up again. His oldest brother was staring at him, and everyone else was staring at Scott. Gordon looked around the group slowly, noting their reactions. This was better than he'd dreamed!

Scott's face was scarlet. Their dad's face had surpassed that colour and was infused with a livid purple. Grandma had paled till she was almost devoid of colour. Miss Marshall was looking as though the piece of pie she'd just consumed was made of sour lemons instead of sweet apples. Miss Isdale was staring intently into her plate as if it had suddenly started revealing to her all the secrets of the universe.

Now Gordon checked out his brothers' expressions. Virgil's was one of incredulity, while John's was approaching awe. Alan was grinning as if all his Christmasses had come at once.

Scott was the first to find his voice, or at least a facsimile of it. "Wh-What?" he squeaked.

"This girl found your wallet on the floor," Gordon supplied.

"I think what we all want to hear you say again," John was smirking, "is how she supposed it got there."

"Oh," Gordon pretended to understand. "She said it must have fallen out of his trousers when he took them off."

"Oh, my," Miss Marshall fanned herself with her serviette, before dabbing her forehead in a distressed manner. "Oh, my!"

"Get a grip, Muriel" Miss Isdale said scathingly, and Gordon was surprised to see her fighting back a smile.

"Scott…" Jeff growled.

"I-I…" Scott stuttered.

"…I'll want to talk to you later." It had to be an optical illusion, brought about by the window behind, but Gordon would almost swear that Jeff Tracy had smoke coming out of his ears.

"B-But… But… I'm innocent!"

Alan sniggered again.

The sound upset Scott even more. "I never… I didn't… I wouldn't…"

Virgil sat back. "I don't believe it."

Miss Isdale lent closer to Gordon. "Your grandmother always said you were a loveable rogue," she whispered. "Now I know what she means."

Scott was still protesting his innocence. "I swear! This girl is lying! I-It's not true."

"Sure, Scott," Alan drawled.

"But… But," Scott stammered. "I-I don't know this girl. N-Not… Not…"

"…In the biblical sense?" John supplied, and a look from his grandmother told him that he was lucky that Miss Marshall was seated between them.

Alan almost fell off his seat in laughter. He leant on Gordon for support.

"No!" Scott shook his head emphatically and a trifle hysterically. "I don't know her. I don't know this girl at all! She's lying! I tell you she's lying! She's… Wait a minute" His expression changed as if it had been lit by the light bulb of realisation. Now he was back in control. "This girl's name wasn't Bonnie Cobb was it, Gordon?"

Gordon pretended to think. "I don't know, Scott. It may have been."

"You know darn well it was," Scott growled.

"Ah, ha!" John crowed. "So you're not one of those guys who loves 'em and leaves 'em without ever knowing their names."

"Yeah," Alan chimed in. "There's a name for guys like you."

"What's that, Alan?" Virgil asked.

Alan reddened and shrank back.

Scott cast John a dirty look, but otherwise ignored his brothers. "I suppose she told you that she's Stephen Cobb's sister?" he asked gruffly.

"I think it did come up in the conversation," Gordon admitted.

"And that he and I went for a ride on our motorbikes today, checking out our old haunts?"

"Possibly."

"And that we got caught in a downpour…?"

"That rings a bell," Gordon admitted.

The rest of the family's heads were swinging backwards and forwards between the two brothers, as if they were following a tennis match. Miss Isdale's shoulders were shaking in silent laughter.

"…And were soaking wet by the time we found shelter?"

"I think that was mentioned."

"And that when we got back to Steve's place, Bonnie was there, and she suggested that I change into some of his clothes while she dried mine?"

"Oh, yeah," Gordon said. "She did say that." He scooped up the last of his apple pie into his mouth and sat back to watch his family's reactions, munching contentedly.

Miss Isdale leant close again. "There's a shed at the bottom of my garden that I never lock," she whispered. "If you need somewhere to hide out for a while…"

Gordon decided that he quite liked Miss Isdale.

Alan started to snicker again. "Oh, boy, Scott. Your face… It was a picture!" His snickers exploded into full-blown laughter.

It was too much for his brothers. Virgil and John cracked up simultaneously, causing Virgil to spray his drink all over the table in front of him.

Alan couldn't take it anymore. He fell of his chair and lay on the floor holding his abdomen as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks.

Jeff barked out a cough... or was it a stifled laugh? "Alan! Get up!" he admonished.

"Gordon," Grandma tutted, but there was laughter in her eyes.

"It's not funny!" Scott protested. "You," he pointed at his second youngest brother, "are dead meat!"

"Oh, oh," John said. "Looks like you're facing the firing squad in the morning, Gordon. Any last requests?"

"Yep," Gordon held out his plate. "Can I have more apple pie please, Grandma?"

The end 


End file.
